


and the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn't mention us, not even once.

by WylderWolf



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pale Cuddles, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:56:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WylderWolf/pseuds/WylderWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates how much he hates them and loves them, loves them so dearly and hates the way his voice forms empty, memorized words. He hates his useless body and his inability to use it, his own fear keeping him away from the gentle touches and soft, soothing words that he secretly needs and craves like he needs air. Hates the red flush to his cheeks when Porrim tells him he's beautiful, because what on Beforus or beyond could be so beautiful about a mutant, who could love a mutant, who could ever stand the heat of his skin or the silver dripping from his tongue. Who could want him for anything more than a sick fetish.</p><p>Why can't he just believe them and be happy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn't mention us, not even once.

**Author's Note:**

> In which Kankri has a long-overdue meltdown and Karkat finds out that everyone has layers to them. And that maybe moirailligiance isn't an entirely lost cause, even after Gamzee.

You weren't sure he'd ever actually stop talking. He doesn't act like a sentient being when he rants, his eyes glaze, his body doesn't move naturally, his jaw moving as if constructed from robotic equipment, wires and metal and nothing like flesh and bone of a living, breathing troll. Words tumble endlessly from his mouth until you think you could fill a dictionary with his speech, his packed-away supply of words that seem only to gain length as he goes. You used to wonder at the ability, two whole seconds of dumbfounded admiration until irritation set in, and then the fury, then finally grim resolve.

That was all until the first time he faltered, a slight catch, a subtle pause that made your eyes focus and your gaze lock with his, and you caught a brief flash of something more than pompous need to hear his own voice. You see something dark and for a moment you hate it, want to smooth out of the creases in his brow, until the sick desire to see it again grips you hard and pulls you under.

So you wait.

And you watch as slowly, achingly, he runs himself dry of the injustices in the hemospectrum, reaches for the last few paragraphs of "delicate natures," runs out of triggers. But he doesn't stop talking; you're still not convinced he can. You keep your face a calm, mildly-annoyed mask as he slips mindlessly into a less-formal story, and it's around then that you start listening.

He talks about culling. About the blood caste. But his life is threaded into the words. He complains. He speaks of too-gentle highbloods and how they humored him, how his best friend's intentions couldn't have been pale, how she cared for him out of habit, how sweet words dribble like toxic sludge from the mouths of those around him. How unfair it all is. How he should be taken seriously.

His voice changes with the subject and he talks about his friends, how Porrim terrifies him with her sexual nature and how condescending it is when Cronus listens with his eyes traveling over him just to make him squirm and he wishes, desperately, that Meenah would let him speak for a few moments before quelling him with rude words. He wishes they would listen like you do. That they would show him affection that isn't linked to duty.

And maybe he doesn't deserve it, he muses, and you can see his shoulders slump and his voice cracks and you have to force yourself to hold still and let him continue. Maybe lowbloods don't need to be heard, maybe it isn't duty that keeps his friends indifferent but him, his personality and his nature and his inability to be anything but fake.

His eyes darken at the word and he repeats it with pained emphasis. He doesn't look at you. He's picking at the thread in his sweater.

Fake concern for others to hide the distaste behind every action, every dark and angry thought about each of his friends and how they don't care for him, have never cared for him, how selfishly he forces them to stay at his side despite the obvious irritation and resentment. How he has hated each of them bitterly, hated the way Porrim insists love on him and the way Latula sits in Mituna's lap like a trophy, and the way they speak, callous, without care and how **stupid** all of them act and how they make no sense to him. 

He pauses there and considers his use of an ableist term and you arch a brow at him. To your surprise, he cracks a wide, disheveled grin. You've never seen him smile.

And then he's mumbling- actually mumbling- about how he can't even succeed in what he's good at because he still slips up, still triggers people and says the wrong thing, still offends and **hurts** those around him and they all hate him.

Not as much as he hates himself, of course. 

Pink-tinted tears are welling in his flat white eyes as he curls in on himself, grasping his knees to his chest, grin still etched over his face like a grotesque mask. His cheeks become stained a faint rose color, his claws knicking holes in his jeans, and you watch him rock, slowly, back and forth on the ground in front of you and he's **still talking.**

He hates how much he hates them and loves them, loves them so dearly and hates the way his voice forms empty, memorized words. He hates his useless body and his inability to use it, his own fear keeping him away from the gentle touches and soft, soothing words that he secretly needs and craves like he needs air. Hates the red flush to his cheeks when Porrim tells him he's beautiful, because what on Beforus or beyond could be so beautiful about a mutant, who could love a mutant, who could ever stand the heat of his skin or the silver dripping from his tongue. Who could want him for anything more than a sick fetish.

Why can't he just believe them and be happy?

And now you break, now you let yourself shift closer to him and very, very slowly you offer him your arms and Kankri Vantas, terrified, easily-triggered Kankri Vantas, dives into them like he's being chased into your warmth by some unseen force. Your knees form protective walls around his trembling body, your arms come up around his shoulders, your chin fitting into the space between two familiarly-rounded horns.

You cling tight and he **lets** you touch him, the slim flats of his shoulders, the silky hair on the back of his neck , the small of his back. The first of his sobs come slowly, building and swelling around you, and he still babbles weakly about who could want him, who could care for him.

Who could love him?

You call him pitiful. And you call him lovely.

And now he whimpers into your ear desperately, each syllable like a soft prayer broken into sobs, fingers digging into the folds of your sweater. 

Your hands are more gentle than they've ever been with Terezi or Gamzee or even the soft-skinned humans as you soothe him, fingers pressing gentle patterns into his back. You realize that his body is just slightly smaller than yours, his bones more prominent, his fingers longer, his horns smoother. Every detail of his body speaks of his nonviolent world's culture, somehow so different and the same to your compact, lean-muscled frame. You are built to defend yourself. Your hair is coarser, your limbs shorter, your skin covered in callouses. And here you have you, a past-self, a version of you packed into a fluid, willowy structure.

He's beautiful.

You pity him.

And with a gentle nudge from somewhere deep inside you, you slide a hand down his back and let your fingers dip under his sweater and touch the skin there, feel the warmth and place soft pressure to the knotted muscle. He stiffens slightly, breath hitching, before he melts into your touch. His mouth snaps shut.

Kankri Vantas is silent.

Save for the breaths that slip from him in uneven patterns as your hands make little delicate circles in his skin, massaging the tension from his back while he falls into a slow, soft purr. You nuzzle against one of his horns just slightly. Neither of you say a word, neither of you mention quadrants or the fact that your last moirailligiance was a disaster and you get lost in the fact that he's letting you hold him. Letting you place fluttery little kisses on his head, his face.

He pulls away from you and grants you a watery smile, then rests a palm against your cheek, pulling it back slightly and resting it down again in an excruciatingly careful 'pap.' You feel your lips tug back over your fangs, a low chuckle in your throat. 

He thanks you, very softly, and slumps against your chest, purr vibrating both of your bodies and you even feel an answering rumble building behind your own ribs. You pet through his hair and brush a thumb over his horns, your free hand still creeping up under his sweater, rubbing at the slight roundness to his belly, working sweeps of frustration out of his shoulders.

You can feel his smile when he presses a grateful kiss to your collar bone. 

You start to think that maybe you don't mind your dancestor so much. Maybe you even relate to him a little.

He falls asleep with a muttered breath that you have to strain to hear, but you're pretty sure that those syllables are a blissfully-whispered "Karkat."


End file.
